Endworlds - Nicholas Read [70]
No, there was no keeping a lid on it anymore, not since the soft-bellies in Washington let the Internet slip into the public domain. Websites were full of evidence, much of it more accurate than people knew. So misdirection was key.
Kriegmacher knew that if the same effort behind all the deep field telescopes and satellites sweeping the skies for signs of alien intelligence had been directed instead to look down, or rather to look sideways with the right lens as his team were doing, the public would find alien life teeming all around them.
But of course preventing that was where Kriegmacher’s team came in. The General flicked a glance at his unit’s flag in the stand next to his desk, the fabric starched for display amid several others that draped various crests, shields and keys, none of them belonging to a nation but instead to a number of prominent families and guilds. The scrolling motto of his flag stood out in yellow letters on a black background above the image of the Earth cupped in two hands:
Gens Reformo Ianua Deduco.
The Latin words that formed the mnemonic ‘GRID’ spelled out in no uncertain terms what their function was, always a reminder of the true mission they were entrusted to fulfill. However, only those who understood the planet’s fate would appreciate the obscure phrase, which translated as: ‘Those who open the door and lead the colonists out.’
For the benefit of others they had concocted a cover name using the same letters: the Global Regiment for Intelligence & Defense. They described themselves as a militarized version of Interpol, commissioned to counter an escalation in international security threats. It only ever took the mention of a few of the more infamous of such acts for people to nod sagely and agree on the need for an organization like this. Few asked for more details, especially after seeing the breadth of their hardware or the depth of their budgets.
Today, as if he didn’t have enough to deal with, now his phone screen was filling with text about thefts of weaponry and gear from Burroughs Labs. Private sector concerns weren’t normally of interest, except the stolen material had been under closed contract exclusively for GRID’s use. The thief’s presence had not been detected by Burroughs’ excellent security, exhaustive examination had failed to reveal how the intruders had penetrated the secret subterranean work area, and they had left nothing behind.
Burroughs Labs’ Chief of Security Alexander McGregor had no leads. He knew McGregor’s reputation. Competent and dedicated, far from the typical corporate drone, McGregor was taking the thefts as a personal affront.
Kriegmacher’s suspicions naturally fell first on CERN trying to play catch-up. But it might also have been another group, recently brought to his attention. Called the Cassandra Foundation and ostensibly an art restoration and historical society, there seemed to be much more going on behind the Foundation’s walls than met the eye. His people had confirmed political party contributions being made in many countries for many years by the Foundation. Big contributions. It wasn’t the size of donations that looked odd, but the number of countries whose politicians they had access to. It was more money than most modern corporations dispensed, and if the records were to be believed, for much longer than the present industrialized age.
Their influence was present now in China, India and America as much as it had been in the former Soviet Union and in Britain during its expansion around the globe three centuries ago. Their support of different ideologies showed this Foundation didn’t play favorites. The British connections extended all the way back through